King of the Carrot Flowers
by sister socrates
Summary: Songfic. Matthew is a recluse, Alfred is stuck with a boy who hurts him. Yekaterina cries sometimes. Everyone has problems, but how they affect us lies in how they are handled.


**A/N: **_oh hey, FFn, long time no see. i wrote this after taking an english final and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. it's... i don't have words. Weird formatting is weird, there's angst, there's incest, there's deceit, and there's even some Ukranada._

_sometimes, i really need a life._

**Warning: **out there be angst, children. implications of rape and abuse, contemplations of suicide, general self-destructive behaviour. incest, yaoi, and a strange format from where i wrote it on paper and didn't feel like changing it. i pretty much have thrown grammar rules to the wind here. probably the most unhealthy thing i've ever written. proceed with caution.

**you know the drill. i don't own APH or neutral milk hotel or anything like that.**

* * *

_When you were young, you were the king of carrot flowers  
__and how you built a tower tumbling through the trees  
__in holy rattlesnakes that fell all around your feet_

Matthew was a reclusive child. Bright as anything, but so unbearably shy, always lost in his inventions and imagination, hiding away in the tree house in the back yard. He was polite, quiet… but they never saw him. Most saw straight through him, as though he wasn't even there. Whether this was brought on by his sheer inability to interact with people, his longing to escape from their family, or the outside world's general disinterest, matthew did not know. But it was better this way, he reasoned. Solitude was always better, a stark contrast to his brother's outlook, the brother who was so loud and social and _seen_. Arthur's golden boy, who still loved Matthew and made an effort to spend time with him despite other engagements. Alfred paid attention to him, and always seemed to know what to do, even bringing around another child not unlike his brother. A doe-eyed Ukrainian girl, also seeking solace, but from her brother's abusive household. She didn't say much, and cried sometimes, but Matthew liked her. And he grew up like this, alone in the wilderness that was Arthur's back yard, with nothing more than a pencil and paper, or Alfred and Yekaterina for company. And he was content.

_your mom would stick a fork right into daddy's shoulder_  
_and dad would throw the garbage all across the floor_  
_as we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for_

Years wore on, people changed. Matthew remained secluded, Yekaterina was forced to remain at home on orders from her brother. And Alfred was always away, exchanging saliva behind closed doors with the crazy Russian boy who had robbed his brother of his only friend. Matthew stayed inside more often, then, alone with interior design magazines and his own thoughts. Once upon a time, he had hoped to rely on his parents for company, but that was a long time ago, when they were _a real family_. Life in the house beyond Matthew's bedroom was chaos and destruction. Arthur's depression and alcoholic rages, Francis coming home later and later ( sleeping with Antonio, the former suspected ), domestic violence and screaming, a smattering of French curses and slurred Cockney dialect. They could not see either of their sons any longer, Matthew's fasting and destructive behaviour, Alfred's injuries and deterriorating mental state. They took care of each other as best they could, Alfred sharing horror stories from stalls in the boys' room and the Braginskys' basement. Matthew would listen patiently, running bathwater for his brother and running fingers through his soft hair, internally damaged by what Ivan had done. He had stopped eating and sought solace in thoughts of death, oftentimes his own. He would not left Alfred see this, though. Not the boy he loved so dearly. The _god _who was always so strong, the god standing upon rapidly cracking clay feet.

_and this is the room, one afternoon, i knew i could love you  
and from above you how i sank into your soul  
into that secret place where no one dares to go_

There was a period at which things with Ivan got unbearable. He loved Alfred, most definitely, but in the way of a manic-depressive and abusive schizophrenic. _So unhealthy_. He broke it off as gently as possible, but gentle still didn't settle well with the violent boy, and Alfred came home to his brother caked in dried blood and spit, glasses cracked, _so upset_. He had cried, and Matthew knew that was the end of his world. His silent, secluded world had finally met its end, and Matthew screamed. He screamed at Alfred for being so goddamn stupid, for not being strong enough, for being too strong. He screamed at Yekaterina, for he missed her so, and he screamed at her brother for breaking his hero. He screamed at Arthur and Francis for being the kind of parents that they were, but it isn't as though they were listening. Then he cried, too, right alongside his brother, for what they had become, what a pitiful existence that they had. And in the same moment that Matthew's universe had shattered, it seemed as though a new one had begun. They fell asleep tangled in one another, a silent vow to take care of each other as they always had. They were all they had left.

A few months later, when Arthur and Francis were out doing whatever it was they did, Alfred took Matthew on the living room floor for the first time, all hands and clacking teeth and awkward teenage eagerness.

For Matthew, it had been beautiful.

He felt seen.

_and your mom would drink until she was no longer speaking_  
_and dad would dream of all the different ways to die_  
_each one a little more than he would dare to try_

Francis left, eventually. Arthur's suspicions that he was having a fling with the Spaniard were indeed true, and it was off with him, just like that. Arthur was hitting the bottle harder than ever, keeping the children despite his apparent inability to care for them properly. And Francis, after a brief time with Antonio, headed back to his motherland where they all supposed he belonged. It was then that Matthew's parents were the ones with such a pitiful existence. Truly, it had always been pitiful, but now they saw it. They even saw their children, but still not as they should have. And while Arthur would forever remain a slave to his alcohol, Francis would contemplate suicide as his son once had._ A pitiful existence._ But, despite it all, Matthew held no contempt for them. They had tried, at least in the beginning. And he had his brother. He _loved_ his brother. And Alfred loved him. After years upon years of being buried in silence, in invisibility, he truly had _someone_. And in the end, that was all that ever mattered.


End file.
